


You Might as Well Live

by BawdyBean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Don't Try This At Home, Eskel is a good sameritan, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Major Illness, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Whump, unrealistic treatments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24485650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdyBean/pseuds/BawdyBean
Summary: Iorveth is caught by a single Nilfgaardian arrow. Will this seemingly small injury be the one that finally brings the squirrel to his end. Here in a rotting hut in the middle of nowhere with only a single other soul around? One that seems determined to take himself out with Iorveth.Eskel has only seen the leader of the scoia'tael on wanted posted--everyone has. Geralt has told him bits and pieces but more than that, Eskel believes every war has two sides, and rarely is one more right than the other. He simply believes in doing what he feels is right.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59
Collections: Discord Community Archive, Witcher Kinkmeme Collection





	You Might as Well Live

**Author's Note:**

> For the witcher kinkmeme promp here: [Pillowfort Witcher Kinkmeme](https://www.pillowfort.social/community/Witcher%20Kinkmeme) also mirrored on Dreamwidth where you can post anon comments and prompts without needing to register if you are shy! [Dreamwidth Witcher Kinkmeme](https://thewitcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/365.html?mode=reply)
> 
> Title from the poem Resumé, by Dorothy Parker

The arrow had gone clean through Iorveth’ upper arm. It stung like a whoreson but it wouldn’t kill him. Unlike the three he’d loosed in rapid succession at the two Nilfgaardian patrolmen who’d followed him. One in the throat, two in the other’s chest easily piercing armor meant to be hidden behind his large shield. The fool had held it to the side of him as he rushed after Iorveth in the swampy trees, in a hurry to claim such a pride-filled bounty.

A quick look over his shoulder assured Iorveth there were no more hunting him. For now. It would never truly end though.

With no desire to be near those bodies when the nekkers and drowners smelled them, Iorveth turned back to keep moving. And promptly fell face first in the muck and stench. “Varh'hewedd!” One foot hooked on a gnarled tree root, it had stayed and Iorveth had swanned over it, arms failing to catch himself in time to prevent landing hard on his injured arm. The good side of his face was plastered with decaying leaves, bog rot and whatever else met its death in these woods.

Blowing out a breath that spit the mud from his lips. Iorveth pushed himself up, wiping the rest of the mud off his face. Now it more than stung. The shaft had pushed deeper through his muscle taking mud and swamp water with it that _burned_. Still, Iorveth wasn’t still alive because he was weak to pain. Snapping the shaft off and throwing it to the side, he took his waterskin and took a good long drink from it. With no idea when he’d find better water to fill it with he knew he’d need it.

Pouring the remaining water over what remained of the arrow to try and clean some of the muck off, Iorveth let his waterskin fall back in place on its strap. Reaching across with his injured arm to grasp his other shoulder tightly Iorveth gritted his teeth. Thankful that his gloves would protect his hand Iorveth grabbed the head of the arrow. Steel broadhead. No wasting that.

Iorveth held his breath and pulled. With a sick sucking feeling the shaft slipped through the larger wound the broadhead had cut in his arm. The whole thing had already started to swell, but removing the shaft made it gush blood anew. The warm wet invading the padded quilting of his gambeson was a telltale sign Iorveth knew all too well.

“Ysgarthiad.” Shoving the bloody broadhead into his quiver to repurpose later Iorveth gripped his bicep hard. As soon as he was out of the swamp he’d have to stop and dress it properly. Heading east Iorveth kept his feet quiet and a watch out. Someone would notice the missing patrol sooner rather than later. Nilfgaard was nothing if not highly regimented. Tardiness was hardly tolerated.

In true Nilfgaardian form Iorveth was fixing his gambeson back in place after having applied a decent field dressing when he heard shouts and hoofbeats. A pack of wild dogs hunted more quietly than a Niflgaardian search party. But then Iorveth supposed they rarely needed to be quiet when they so often outnumbered their prey.

Slinking from the sandy beach to the Pontar, Iorveth took his knife and sliced an old dried reed from the base of a clump nearby. Fitting it in between his teeth and plugging the end with his tongue he carefully waded into the murky waters.

It was cool, not freezing thankfully. The water seeped into Iorveth’s armor weighing him down. He moved slower than he wanted to, the horses and shouts getting louder by the minute, but hiding was no good if he left a glaring trail of footprints and swirling water. When he was soaked to the chest, Iorveth squatted down, the water invading everywhere, rushing in over the collar of his gambeson and making him give an involuntary shiver. Then it seeped into his headscarf, his hair and Iorveth blew his air out of the reed.

Sitting utterly still under the water for what seemed like forever Iorveth breathed slowly, carefully, not to draw the reed under with him. Everything was almost completely muted, the shouting a bare whisper in his ears. The hoofbeats vibrated through the water though when the calvarymen rode along the beach.

Iorveth waited until long after those vibrations had gone. And then longer still. Until he was feeling warm from the shaking of his muscles and he knew he needed to get out now, or risk the shivering stopping altogether. That would be real trouble.

With stiff, uncooperative legs, Iorveth started to drag himself from the Pontar. The riverbed slid underneath him slick with silt and he reached out with his injured arm to grab at the reeds that had infiltrated the water even here. Hand over slimy hand Iorveth pulled at the reeds to drag himself from the water's clutches. Spitting the reed out on the beach when he could finally lay his head on dry land again, Iorveth heaved in great breaths of fresh air as the dizziness faded.

* * *

It had taken the last of Iorveth’s energy but he’d found an abandoned campfire out in the open by the river, the bodies of dead bandits freshly strewn about. Probably the work of the Nilfgaardians searching for him. From it he’d taken the dented tin pot and hauled it full of water back to the equally abandoned set of shacks he planned on using.

They were back towards the swamp, towards the Nilfgaardian front camp and exactly where those searching for him had already looked and decided he wasn’t. The large earth elemental roaming nearby didn’t hurt as a deterrent either.

Iorveth had dug up some supplies he’d stashed under the floorboards some time ago and boiled the water. He cleaned the wound on his arm meticulously. Too much filth had found its way into it and it was swollen and tender to the touch. More so than the usual arrow wound. _The usual arrow wound_. Iorveth rolled his eyes at himself and grunted. Contemplating that perhaps he should try to get shot less often if he was that aware of what was normal for an arrow wound on himself. Putting a beggartick poultice over the wound, Iorveth wound a clean bandage from his stashed supplies around it and tied it off.

It would be a long time before his armor was dry, and Iorveth was fast succumbing to the exhaustion that numbed his fingers. If this was how he died then so be it. He laid down on the dirty mattress of the single bed, one of the few pieces of furniture not yet falling to ruin in this rundown shack missing part of its roof and passed out.

Half blinking his eye open Iorveth knew immediately something was _wrong_. It wasn’t the silence or the sun filtering through the fallen in roof. It was that when he blinked his lid only rose half way. “Qu-’ss bloede gae-s?” Reaching for his mouth, Iorveth found his arms heavy lead. With great effort he touched his lips, then his eye, and his nose. Under Iorveth’s hand they seemed normal. Yet his hand swam and divided in front of his eye when he looked at it.

Trying to sit up Iorveth slumped, grasping at the bedframe and missing. Tumbling onto the floor and landing hard with a groan. What in bloede hells was going on? Pushing up on his knees Iorveth crawled to the window and looked out. No one around. No one had poisoned him in his sleep. Then he noticed his arm, abscesses were raised down it. Bulging here and there, some as large as a floren, others as small as a fingernail.

Propping himself with his back against the wall under the window Iorveth debated draining the infection. He wasn’t sure it would help. And worse, he wasn’t sure he could handle his knife well enough to do it safely.

Either way with or without lancing them, Iorveth wasn’t sure he would survive. Grunting out a disturbed laugh Iorveth smiled. One misplaced Nilfgaardian arrow.

* * *

It wasn’t something he would likely get paid for but Eskel had heard from the villagers at Kimbolt Way that there was an earth elemental roaming near here. Eskel had been searching for an earth elemental mutagen for quite some time, and the problem was, the creatures just weren’t that common. So, regardless of the fact that there was no contract nor coin, Eskel set out southeast of Kimbolt Way to find it and kill it.

There was a small path, no more than a game trail really, leading off the main road. Eskel followed it most of the way, the villagers had mentioned a set of abandoned huts—lost to the advance of Nilfgaard and the swamp. Cresting a low hill Eskel spied them, and got a good whiff of the stench. Something was still in there, something not healthy at all.

Deciding it wasn’t worth losing his chance at the mutagen over, Eskel skirted the huts by a wide berth and found the circle of burial stones where the earth elemental was said to lurk. Sure enough, the hulking creature roamed in the middle of them. It was bulky and four times his size, but Eskel was pretty sure it was going to be a routine fight.

Dimeritrium bombs and elementia oil, plenty of rolling in the dirt and a strong Quen up at all times should see him through it just fine. It was only a matter of timing and patience.

Ten minutes and some dusty armor later Eskel was very pleased to have finally gotten his mutagen after more than a year of hunting. Rounding up the remaining elemental essence into a tin. Eskel eyed the huts up the path debating the pros and cons of investigating the smell further.

It hadn’t smelled _dead_ , or even particularly rotting, which left Eskel with the distinct impression that there might be someone or something still alive in there. Albeit extremely ill. Eskel wasn’t one to leave a person, or even a sentient creature, in need if he could help it. Carefully, without a sound, he made his way up the path to the first crumbling hut.

A sniff of the air brought the stench back in full force. It was strong enough Eskel thought even an unenhanced human would have been able to smell it if they got close enough. Stale urine, sour sweat, and fetid breath. Edging sideways up to the window, Eskel peeked in. Nothing. Only a few pieces of overturned furniture.

Whatever or whoever it was must be in the other hut. Eskel crept closer and honed his sense. Wet rattling breaths and a single heartbeat came from the hut with a collapsing ceiling. Both were sluggish. Standing right outside the wooden door Eskel listened intently. The person, and he was fairly certain now it was a person, was to the left of the door, by the wall. No one else was in the hut, at least not anyone else alive.

Covering with his crossbow Eskel gave the door a push that sent it slowly swinging open with a creak. As he suspected there was a person slumped against the wall behind it. A mostly naked Aen Seidhe man, in piss covered smallclothes. Flies buzzed around the room, attracted by the smell.

One arm had a fairly fresh wound on it and pustules spotting it all the way down to his hand. His jaw hung slack and his eyelid drooped low over the one remaining eye. Where the other should have been was an empty socket, marred by mottled red and purple scar tissue that ran jagged down down to his upper lip. That wasn’t a fresh wound at all.

“Iorveth?” Eskel whispered the name, almost afraid someone would hear him say it. He may not have ever met the famous squirrel, but he’d heard of him. Seen his face on wanted posters on every notice board from here to Novigrad and back. And it was unmistakable.  
Listless eyes slid over to Eskel and a gurgling noise came from Iorveth’s throat.

“Fuck. Alright. You’re not dead jus’ hold on a moment.” As if Iorveth had any choice but to wait. Eskel wracked his brain, they were stupidly close to the Nilfgaardian forward camp. Which might explain how Iorveth came to be in such a state as it was. “Alright, ‘m jus’ gonna look you over alright? Don’ try an’ kill me.”

Iorveth shifted his legs lethargically on the floorboards but otherwise didn’t move. Eskel took that as agreement and squatted down, hooking his crossbow onto his back again. Feeling down Iorveth’s legs, Eskel didn’t find anything broken. So no injury there, he was probably too weak to stand from whatever infection was coursing through his veins, and something certainly was. Something certainly was, the boils on his arm spoke of that.

Eskel checked the less injured arm first. Nothing there either, not on Iorveth’s chest. He lifted Iorveth’s eyelid with his thumb and it drooped right back when Eskel let go. The muscles in his face slack, not just relaxed, but lacking all tension. Eskel looked at Iorveth’s wounded arm.

The wound itself didn’t look awful, but the pustules scattered down his arm told Eskel a story. On a strong hunch, Eskel drew his trophy knife. “Gonna hurt a little bit.” That was all the warning he gave Iorveth before lancing one of the smallest bulges. The scent that leaked out with the puss inside answered any doubt Eskel had left.

“Well shit. You’ve got wound palsy. I bet you can’t move your arms at all, probably struggling jus’ to breath an’ swallow.” Eskel glanced nervously out the window. “Do the Nilfgaardians now you here?” Another rattling gurgle, Melitele this was going to be a disaster.

“Listen, the good news is you can still breath, an’ wiggle your legs, so it’s not too far gone to save you. Left foot for yes, right foot for no. Do they know you’re here?” Iorveth’s right foot slowly twitched.

“Good.” Eskel sighed. “Good. Need to get you cleaned. Stay here.” Eskel winced at the word choice. “Sorry. I’ll be right back, I hafta get water an’ supplies.” Mind rushing but feet carrying him at a steady pace, Eskel walked out and whistled for Scorpion. The Pontar wasn’t far.

* * *

 _“Stay here.”_ If Iorveth had been capable of moving he’d have stabbed the man, witcher or not. Who the fuck did he think he was, and what crown sat on his head, that he had the audacity to order Iorveth around when he clearly couldn’t disobey.

Still a small part of Iorveth was grateful for the stocky witcher who’d opened the door and pointed the business end of a crossbow at his head. At least he was well armed, and not an idiot. Given Iorveth’s current situation, that was a lot more than he’d hoped for in a rescuer. At least he wasn’t wearing black and hadn’t pulled the trigger. Another small part of Iorveth wondered if that was even a blessing. No longer able to move or even swallow to keep from choking on his own spit, Iorveth wasn’t sure this witcher could even save him now.

Minutes ticked by, or at least Iorveth felt they did. The square of light the sun threw on the wall from the window hadn’t moved by much when the witcher returned. Poking his shaggy head in through the door and setting down some saddlebags before disappearing again. Ysgarthiad, it was maddening not to even know where he went.

The square of light ticked across the wall, growing fainter, and Iorveth wondered if he’d left after all. Then the door burst open and the witcher walked through it backwards carrying a pot of water. “Sorry, I had to actually boil it ‘stead of jus’ heatin’ it with my fingers. Don’ wan’ you gettin’ some _other_ infection on top of this one.”

The pot was set on the floor a few feet from his legs but Iorveth could still feel the heat radiating off of it. The knife that had nicked his arm earlier sat carefully perched on the edge. Iorveth’s skin turned to gooseflesh involuntarily, he hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten, even in the warm evening air.

“‘M Eskel, by the way. I know you’re Iorveth ‘cause well— posters everywhere.” Eskel waived his hand around in the air as if that were good enough. “Figured you should know, ‘cause ‘m prolly gonna get real personal with you in the next few days.”

Eskel flipped his bedroll out on the only bed and dipped a folded square of linen in the still steaming pot, quickly setting it in a bowl he’d put nearby to cool. Meticulously, Eskel unpacked what he needed and Iorveth watched the items come out of his saddlebags: linen bandages, brass needle and silk thread,herbs, soap— a change of clothes.

Squatting over Iorveth’s legs, Eskel tugged at the laces on his filthy braies. “Not to be rude, but you stink, an’ ‘s attacting bugs.” Eskel swatted at the flies around them. “So ‘m getcha cleaned up alright?” Eskel spoke to him conversationally as if Iorveth could answer him intelligibly. Instead Iorveth only managed a gurgle that led to a reflexive cough as he choked on his own spit.

Braies already loose, they slid easily to the floor when Eskel hugged Iorveth’s chest, one arm behind him and one free, lifting him with shocking ease. Iorveth let out a startled grunt. This was _not_ how he preferred to get naked with a man.

Iorveth only had a moment to consider it before Eskel was moving him, now completely naked, to lay out on the floor, head considerately pillowed on Eskel’s saddlebags. It was, Iorveth took note, a lot easier to breath this way. Eskel had positioned him on his side, and his spit ran out of his mouth rather than choking him, when he struggled to swallow it. It drew his attention away from the fact that a witcher he’d never met before was washing his body.

First arms and torso, back, then legs working up. “Gettin’ personal here.” Iorveth closed his eye and tried to wander in his mind. The cloth touched his cock. Cool by now but not cold, Iorveth flinched. Except he didn’t, he physically could not, even though he swore the sensation had been there his eye remained motionless and placid.

Eskel seemed unaffected and the cloth moved over every private inch of Iorveth’s body with impartial efficiency. It was horrifying. Iorveth cringed inside with every sweep of soap and linen. One leg was lifted and Iorveth’s eyelid crept sluggishly open again to see Eskel scooting a pair of braies up his legs.

“Gonna big on you, but we’ll pull the strings tight. At least you’ll be clean an’ dry.” Eskel gave Iorveth a weak smile and it was a pathetic thing, face marred by a twisted lightning strike of scars crawling down to his lip.

Hips jarred up, the braies slipped up and Eskel cinched them tight at Iorveth’s waist. Eskel was right, he was clean and dry, and cold as the frozen Pontar. But not being covered in his own stench was such a relief that for the time being he didn’t care.

“Here’s the thing. This palsy will spread. It’ll kill you left unchecked. But I have an idea…” Iorveth didn’t like the way Eskel’s thoughts trailed off, or the way he was brandishing the knife he’d kept on the pot of now only hot water. “Need to lance these,” the knife sliced into Iorveth’s arm like heated steel. Staring motionless at the wall behind Eskel, Iorveth wanted to scream, to grit his teeth in pain, all he managed was a rough pained moan, “an’ clean that wound.”

“I think I can infect myself with this toxin. Witcher-” Eskel indicated himself with the bloody knife and moved the next pustule, “-I can handle a lot of toxicity. Should be alright.”

 _Should be!?_ The words echoed inside Iorveth’s head. Now he was well and truly pissed, and frightened. He’d planned on dying here. Then this auburn haired Wolf had stumbled upon him and Iorveth had come to terms with the fact that he would live. Now the great fucking lummox was going to give himself whatever was killing Iorveth? Only to leave Iorveth to watch him die while he couldn’t even move away from the corpse before he rotted himself? _Vatt’ghern neén_.“Neé-” The words would not form and Iorveth grunted angrily.

“Shhh. ‘S gonna be fine. I know what ‘m doin’. In theory at least. After I’ve processed the toxin I’ll have a sorta antidote in my blood for a short bit. I’ll distill it down an’ put it back in you, stop the progression of the palsy at least.” Eskel finished cleaning and bandaging all the sores on Iorveth’s arm where he’d cut the skin away from the pustules and drained them.

Iorveth’s heart thudded loud and fast in his chest when Eskel took the same dirty knife, teaming with infection and dug the tip into his own forearm. Bloed vatt’ghern. Now they would both die in this miserable rotting cottage. Iorveth let out a strangled pathetic meep. He’d been so livid he’d missed the vatt’ghern squatting down to scoop him up.

Deposited gently on the single bed on top of the witcher’s bedroll Iorveth was rolled to face out toward the room. At least he could watch the vatt’ghern die? Not much of a consolation.

Eskel looked at Iorveth. Something didn’t fit. Casting his eyes around the room Eskel spotted the red tie that most wanted posters showed covering the disfiguring scars on Iorveth’s missing eye. It reeked of dirty water just like the rest of Iorveth’s armor.

Taking it Eskel dunked it in the pot of hot water and soaped it up, then rinsed it clean and hung it over the bed post to dry. He did the same with everything else he could find that needed washing, lastly the soiled braies.

“‘S gonna take a while for the toxin to set in on me. Gonna go back to the river and get more clean water to heat while I wait. I’ll be back.” Eskel set off on Scorpion to the Pontar.

It didn’t take long for Eskel to get there on horseback. Filling his waterskin and the kettle he turned back quickly, suddenly worried about the close proximity of the cottage to the Nilfgaardian forward camp and the fact that he’d left Iorveth alone in it. Completely defenseless should soldiers come by looking for him.

Nothing was amiss when Eskel rode back up on the two small buildings though. Peeking in on Iorveth through the window Eskel assured himself all was as well as it could be. Then he set to preparing for his own incapacitation. Hopefully it would be short lived.

Scorpion settled calmly into the other shack with some grain and water. If worst came to worst Eskel could whistle and his stallion would trample right through the flimsy door he was sure. At least this way Scorpion was out of sight and unlikely to alert any passing peasants that they were squatting in the broken down buildings.

Eskel brought the rest of the water and his supplies inside the hut where Iorveth still laid facing the doorway. Sluggish eyes followed him around the single room as Eskel ate a meager meal from his pack and sat back against the wall next to the bed.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and without a fire the room had grown dark. Eskel could still see fine, and watched as Iorveth’s drooping eyes finally fell shut. A puddle of drool was soaking into his bedroll under Iorveth’s slack jaw. Eskel thought of getting up to put a cloth there but his muscles felt gluey and he slipped away into his own sleep.

_Bloede feainn_! A thousand needles stabbed Iorveth in the eye when he cracked it open as far as he could get it. The morning sun aimed right in the back window and reflected perfectly off of Eskel’s trophy knife where it rested on the pot of water.

Grunting with all his might Iorveth tried to get the idiot witcher’s attention but it was no use. Eskel was slumped over on his side, the scars on the right side of his face gone completely slack.

“Ne-!” _Neén_! Iorveth struggled to get the word out. Adrenaline fighting hard but eventually losing out to dulled nerves. Heart racing in his chest, Iorveth grunted in anger. What kind of halfwit willingly risked his own death, to save the life of a man he’d never met. One who was wanted across the Continent at that?

Eskel stirred before Iorveth’s eyes, speech slurred and cat eyes sagging at the lids. “Shhh s’lright. B’ f’ine. S’sleep liddle long’r.”

 _N'te marw._ No not now. Iorveth watched Eskel closely. The rise and fall of his chest so slow it was easy to see now how he had mistaken him for dead moments ago. Despite Eskel’s order to sleep a little longer and the sun stabbing him in the eye, Iorveth kept watch.

Waiting. Until the sun moved and no longer made his eye water. Until Eskel, chest rose and fell faster, with greater ease. Or at least so Iorveth imagined. Only then did exhaustion drag him back under.

Aching muscles and a stiff back greeted Eskel. The mid afternoon sun cast short shadows inside the windows. A glance to his left proved Iorveth had fallen back asleep and Eskel was in no hurry to wake him.

Moving quietly, Eskel tried to stretch the unnatural dormancy out of his arms and legs. Every muscle in his body felt just a bit off. There was no time to waste though, and Eskel knew it. Before long his body would completely rid itself of any trace of the toxin, and of everything it had built up to fight it off so quickly.

Before he’d sat down to pass out the night before Eskel had boiled the water and cleaned Iorveth’s and his own blood off his knife. Now it sat clean and shining on the edge of the pot. Sifting through his saddle bags Eskel looked for a few things he normally reserved for making decoctions. A flat bottomed beaker with an extra side spout, and an open topped beaker— the kind reserved for the trials normally.

In truth he only kept it for emergencies that required getting something into his blood faster than swallowing a potion could achieve. It was not a pleasant device. A long slightly curved, hollow glass pipette led off the bottom, and was designed to be inserted into a large vein. Gravity would pull the contents of the beaker down into the bloodstream where they could do their work.

In many ways Eskel was thankful Iorveth was incapable of struggling at the moment. Young trainees undergoing the trials had been strapped down to Sad Albert for a reason. Having their veins pierced with several of these was only the beginning of the reason why.

Eskel pushed his thoughts of the trials aside and cut open a vein on his arm letting the blood run down a single finger as he directed it into the first beaker. By the time the beaker was half full the wound had slowed to a trickle and Eskel pressed a cloth into it. WIth a bit of time and pressure it would stop completely and heal over on its own in less than a day. Leaving not even a mark.

Pouring in a small amount of dried powdered maidenhair tree leaves Eskel began to swirl the blood in the flask in a rhythmic circle. Slowly at first dissolving the powder then faster to separate out the yellow layer from the red. It was not fast work and Eskel was thankful for a witcher's stamina and his own seemingly goatlike stubbornness in not giving up.

Eventually the parts emerged and Eskel hurried to drain the substance off of the top into the second flask, very carefully holding a finger over the sharpened end of the glass pipette it led to.

Iorveth was startled awake by a very mobile and alive Eskel bodily straddling him. In one hand he held an upside down glass bottle of sorts with an extremely long thin spout. Eskel had rolled Iorveth onto his back and it made breathing so difficult it was all he could think about for a moment.

“You’re prolly not gonna enjoy this. I can use Axii on you so you don’ remember but I’d rather not mess with your head.” Eskel caught Iorveth’s eye and looked down at him sourly. “If you want me to do that, blink twice. If not, blink once.”

Those words jostled Iorveth’s mind into action. He had an inkling of what this crazy witching on top of him was going to do and the idea of not even being aware of it terrified him. Iorveth concentrated hard, closing and opening his eye one time.

“Alright. Hold still this ‘s gonna hurt.” Once again the sick desire to laugh bubbled inside of Iorveth. As if he had any choice. Eskel pinned one of Iorveth’s injured arm against his side, tucking it underneath the muscled thigh that held Iorveth firmly to the bed. The other arm Eskel turned palm up, placing his knee on the flat of Iorveth’s hand to keep it there.

Suddenly Eskel was stabbing Iorveth in the arm. Quite literally shoving the sharp end of the glass bottles long neck into the sinewy flesh on the inside of his arm. All Iorveth could do was gurgle in pain and the glass sank in, splitting his flash open underneath it. Then as suddenly as he had pushed in Eskel stopped.

“Tha’s all. Jus’ breath. This part’s not so bad. Jus’ hafta wait for the antitoxin to drain into you.” Eskel let out a deep breath and Iorveth wondered if he really knew what he was doing. Or if Eskel was simply using him as some sort of twisted test pig for an idea. It must have come through in his eye, in a tiny twitch of whatever muscle control was left on his face because Eskel sighed again.

“Ichaer haela? Te n'aen marw.” One eyebrow raised Eskel looked at Iorveth and waited for it to sink in. “Cáelm aen.”

Closing his eye, Iorveth’s head throbbed. Bloede vatt’ghern talking to him like an overexcited child. Still, something about hearing it in his own tongue did settle Iorveth’s fear that Eskel might be experimenting on him. His arm felt strangely cold, opening his eye Iorveth saw that nearly half the yellow liquid in the bottle had run in. He tried to ignore it. The thought of a stranger’s bodily fluid running into his own body made Iorveth want to retch.

It was a huge relief when Eskel pulled out the glass tube and replaced it with a clean patch of linen. For what seemed like a long time Eskel still sat atop Iorveth pressing down into the linen. Finally he unseated himself, and Iorveth drew an easier breath at having his own space back. A bandage was tied around his arm to secure the newest wound.

Then Iorveth was moved again. Grunting he tried to show his displeasure. Eskel arranged his head so that his hair hung over the edge. With his thick forearm under Iorveth’s neck to prevent him from choking on his own spittle, Eskel tipped a mug of warm water over Iorveth’s hair.

“‘M sorry I had to do that. You’ll feel better soon though.” Eskel continued to wet Iorveth’s hair with water from the pot that he’d warmed with Igni. It was the least he could do to comfort the elf after torturing him with the treatment.

Scrubbing his own shave soap into Iorveth’s hair, the scent of juniper and bourbon filled the air around them. Eskel carefully poured mug after mug over Iorveth’s head until the water ran clear again. The pot beneath his head was filled with muddy soap clouded water.

Eskel dried Iorveth’s long hair as much as he could then scooted Iorveth’s head back onto the bed. Rolling him onto his side again Eskel went out and tossed the pot of water. He returned with a bucket, which he held up for Iorveth to relieve himself in before taking that out and tossing that as well. Working a comb carved from antler through Iorveth’s hair, Eskel made sure he was clean, his red head scarf neatly tied back into place, and well taken care of before covering him up for the night.

The next morning when Eskel woke it was to a shadow cast over him on the floor. Iorveth stood tall above him. The stern look on his face was offset by the fact that he wore only Eskel’s very loose braies still.

Iorveth stretched out his hand. “Ceádmil, Deargbleidd.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rough and or exact translations for elderspeech (depending on if I had to smudge the word together or if the words already existed in canon)
> 
> Varh'hewedd - son of a bitch (bitch's kid)  
> Ysgarthiad- shit  
> Qu-’ss bloede gae-s- wha-s bloody (damn) cur-se  
> bloede - bloody or damn  
> Vatt’ghern neén- witcher no  
> Bloede feainn- damn sun  
> N'te marw- don't die  
> Ichaer haela? Te n'aen marw.- Blood medicine? You won't die.  
> Cáelm aen- calm down  
> Ceádmil, Deargbleidd- a hundred thousand welcomes to you, Redwolf

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Big game hunted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717709) by [embeer2004](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004)




End file.
